


Broken

by DiAmbrogio



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Cannibalism, Insanity, M/M, Romance, Slow Burn, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-19 07:32:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5958943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiAmbrogio/pseuds/DiAmbrogio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Promised Day, a world weary Edward went North to find his mother's family. What he finds is conflict that steals everything from him. His ideals are tested, his heart broken, and everything he's stood for is challenged. War is hell and it leaves no one unscathed.</p><p>Dedicated to Roylustang for listening to my crazy ramblings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> A good part of this story takes place in Drachma and involves a mixture of a few mythologies. Think of Drachma as a very large mixing of cultures.

How long has he been here, hiding in the ice?

Agnessa sees through him, he knows. She’s as old as the written word and tuts at him daily. “When are you going to get a move on, child?” The northern accent hangs heavy on every word.

Ed raises his head from his book to call her the most insulting expletive he can think of. She laughs and hobbles over to muss his hair. Those in range snicker, and life goes on.

-

The only thing ever associated with Drachma is blood. Drachma is loud and uncivilized, they say. The whole country, people proclaim, is a war machine that holds no value to life. Though the only exposure Amestrians had of the country was Bradley-sponsored propaganda, the information is mostly right. Mostly.

It is South Drachma that is the poisonous part. The ruler industrializes and tantrums without a care. When he’s not trying to capture the mountainous north, he tries capturing Amestris. Emperor Hugo just wants and wants and wants. The old asshole just fucked up the view of the whole country for everyone.

In the South all you can see is black sky from the smoke. All you can hear is the clank of machinery. What food that you can get is tainted with the sting of tears.

But if you go North, if you go through mountains bigger than Briggs and conditions so stifling that hell is put to shame, you will find a place totally opposite. The isolation has anchored it in its own time.

His mother used to sing Bratja without knowing what it meant. To her, it was all she had of the parents that sent her away to escape the war. To Edward himself, the tune is a well-guarded secret shoved deeply into his heart that no one can pry free.

His relatives here have a song on their lips from the day they come into the world. They fill the empty land with canata every moment of every day.

Agnessa, his mother's aunt, is his own hell. “Sing for me?” She asks the same question even when the others have stopped, filled with the ‘Elric stubbornness’ that the family prides.

“Sing.” A bony hand pokes into his arm as she repeats.

Edward ignores her and just shakes his head in response. He does not want to sing and no one can force him otherwise. She has been plying him for  two years now. Not even another would make him change his mind.

A humph passes her lips. “You need to stop this foolishness. At least talk for once, or have you gone mute?” He switches his attention to her and his mother's eyes that are gazing back at him. Old with wrinkles and still so beautiful.

Edward moves as if to say something, causing Agnessa to smile with what teeth she has left. She just wants a single sound from him; even a small one would do.  

“I’m going out.” And without pause he shoves the door open and bounds into the night. How quickly her hopeful expression falls.

 

-

The mountains are cold, as always. But ice has always settled into his bones without a care, so he doesn't even regret not grabbing a coat. Most people are sleeping now, in their cave homes carved into the mountain. But as usual, not him. No, sleep never seems to come as it used to. Perhaps that is due to him needing only to support himself. There is no Alphonse to keep alive.

Amarog stirs as Ed strides into the dog den. He huffs in offense at the human he only recently came to like. Ed feels almost as if he can hear Amarog speak the words, ‘Why are you such an annoying pup?’ The ancient dog’s one good eye shines in the moonlight streaming through the cave roof holes.

Ed sticks his tongue out at the only canine to awaken at his presence. The coot was just as bad as Agnes could be, coddling him and treating him like a baby. “Just go back to bed. I won’t cause any trouble.”

A bark that is full of disbelief tears from Amarog’s throat. He lifts himself as best he can, straining and striving in his old age. Edward aims for a spot deep into the cutout and the old dog ambles behind him, heavy with sleep. He steps over the wolf mutts as he journeys. Amarog is past the age of caring; he walks as he pleases.

Edward sighs but is rebuffed by a sound of tired warning. The time is too late for any argument. As soon as he sits, back against the stone wall warm from the collective pack, he is prodded and maneuvered until his large companion can sit on him comfortably.

“You’re such an asshole.” The statement earns Ed a kick along with a bark that is Amarog’s nice way of saying, ‘Shut the fuck up.’

The hunting dog returns to his stupor without further incident and Ed finds that he doesn’t mind the closeness. A heartbeat is a wonderful thing to feel under one's hands. Ed idly runs his fingers through the fur around him to map the sensation. How strong it is. Like a tree, it branches out from a thick pounding center to thin pulses.

When he’s finished, he lays his right hand back on the heart. Since it is all he’s been focused on, Edward can hear the beating oh so clearly.

_Badum. Badum_.  How different the feeling of sensation is, now that he has a flesh hand. The village children had taken to calling him his old alchemist name upon seeing the remnants of metal in his arm and the automail leg. He had tried keeping the leg in good shape, but three years without a proper mechanic had taken its toll.

A phantom pain settles in Ed's forehead where Winry always hit him with that goddamned wrench. If she saw the leg, she wouldn’t just hit him. All that she’d leave of him would be a bloody smear.

Then there’s Al. Edward sends him letters whenever he can get something to write on. Ice and permafrost don’t let anything like trees grow, so people mainly use parchment. Ed’s material of choice is actually fox skin. Amarog prefers the animal for dinner and can be persuaded to give up the skin with some coaxing.

Edward isn’t trying to forget anything. He thinks of Roy, Riza, Alphonse—everyone. Not a day goes by in which he is not reminded of them in a some shape or form.

But there’s this, this is a safe little hideaway where he doesn’t have to be anyone. He is Trisha's child. He is Fullmetal. He is an Elric amongst many Elric's. Hunting to live is not hard; he did the same when Izumi threw him on the island. The ice and the other ways of life took time to get used to, but he did.

There just isn’t any baggage. Here, there is no Philosopher's Stone or crazy military. Clan Elric’s biggest problem is finding enough food for the winter. Compared to all the other shit that has happened, that pursuit is as easy as breathing.

Amestris is complicated with the people that have built him up to some image or another. It’s all hero talk until they find out he’s incapable of alchemy anymore. Then, pity. Screaming and kicking can’t fix everything. A facade made of broken glass can’t hold up for long.

Edward just couldn’t stand it anymore. At some point not giving a flying fuck turned into some deep set insecurity and that feeling of worthlessness. What was he without alchemy?

Ed looks up at the ceiling and rubs his eyes, the tears stinging. “So you took your mother's song and ran away. You ran away as far as you could and are hiding from everything.”

_How despicable. How weak._

He doesn’t need words because when he speaks, he feels. The emotions stir him up and make him run in every direction except the right one.

Let the wind take his tones. The tempests are welcome to the vibrations of his vocal cords. Snow can bury the feelings in his heart. Fights with the neighboring tribes and survival needs eat up the energy that could be used to cry.

_Stay silent. Don’t even think about it._

Edward divides and places all of his capacities in such a way that they can be worn out. He uses justifiable reasons to never look at the real problem.

Tomorrow. He will think about it tomorrow, address the problem tomorrow. Life is so long; it all can wait.

The rock behind him is smoothed from the years. Tiny crystal fragments work their way into Edwards thick clothing when he makes an effort to get comfortable against it. Restful sleep on such a surface is only possible upon getting the angle that his body is used to. However, Amarog weighs a metric goddamned ton.

Ed curses the heavy dog that won’t let him move. He hates everything in the world for a moment and falls into dreams complaining.

Laika lifts her young body after seeing that his eyes had closed. She trots over to plop down to his left and croons to her family.

The dogs had followed the clan of Elric since the early days. Only the moon can recall the events between them, she herself told by their night stories that they once sang to her. For them, one single Elric held as much worth as a hundred. They even loved the blond one dearly, even though he was about as smart as a rock.

They circle, lying on and near him like a pelt quilt, and all is quiet except for sleepy breathing and the wind’s soft boom.

  
  



	2. So harsh, the cry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Errybody dies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are life! They make me grow as a writer and encourage me to post more quickly.

The air is full of kites that dive bomb, of falcons that tear, and ospreys that bite and hang on like parasites. The ground is littered with wolf dogs snapping, of men warring on all sides, horses shrieking, and blood staining.

In short- a war.

Edward is fighting with a sword he grabbed, shoving and disarming as many people as possible. Kicking, stabbing, and jumping—he throws himself into the movement of the fight. He will never take a life, he tells himself this whenever these scuffles happen, but it can be so hard. Killing is so much easier than saving.

There isn’t supposed to be fighting in winter, he recalls dismally. When the North declared independence from the South they made their own inter-tribal constitution on what they could and could not do. The document is a long piece of shit that’s over two hundred years old but it works. It is to the Northerners what Ishbala is to the Ishbalans.

Edward knows that there have been those who chose to disobey it in the past. It’s always over something small that could be overlooked and swept under the carpet. A missing horse or an argument of marriage. Those squabbles never had physical conflict, _never_ . No one has ever dared to against the combat laws. War is always, always, _always_ , in summer.

“ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRROOO!” Amarog is bounding like a god-crafted machine and ripping the life of the enemy away with his teeth. Though he is old, he is still an Alpha. He is an unapologetic man eater from the Elric past that they would like to forget. Covered in entrails, he bounds past Edward to ravage a horse riding an enemy coming at them.

There’s a snap as the wolf grabs onto a horse's neck, bringing it down. Ed glides in with practiced ease to make work of the rider. The two work in tandem now, their combat flowing together.

Edward ignores the smell of blood, though it makes him want to vomit. He shoves down the revulsion that he feels as his wolf companion robs the enemy of their lives and drinks down their blood. They are human too, with families and loved ones. By having their lives taken, they are being sent off and their futures cut short.

Why is this happening? Why are his relatives being ran out from their homes? Why are they being ambushed? The Elric are peaceful unless provoked; they haven't bothered anyone. A million questions are running through Ed’s head.

What should he do? There isn’t any alchemy to call forward, any backup behind him. What the hell should he do?

But then he finds the white fuzzball that is Laika amidst the bloodshed. Oh, how she mourns over her partner (his mother's third cousin—his relatives are dying), and a falcon swerves downward for the kill.  The Elric are dog breeders, they always have been, and the pups are hand raised by their partner. Any mercy that he still has vanishes at the horrid sight. His opponents may be human, but his family is dying because they were attacked first.

“Amarog!” The wolf snatches the bird just before it hits and Ed shoves the wiggling thing into his bed clothes. She whimpers still but he cannot do anything because the moment he’s up it is back to fighting.

He is trying to assess the situation, but there isn’t much room to think. Ed has to keep his right arm close to his chest to avoid Laika slipping out. The adrenaline is wearing off and the cold is seeping in through his wet clothing. Though he’s been here for a year, he only knows enough Drachman to have a basic conversation. He can’t get much from the shouts around him.

When another person's dog comes to attack, he realizes that he’s been too happy. Everything's been too sweet and he’s lost the edge that he had just two years ago. Amestris and Father taught him horror. He had been numbly used to loss, deadened by the guilt over a little girl and shoved forward by the voices shouting behind.

Deep recollections are taking Ed’s attention away from the fight. A comrade has to cover him from a hit from behind, cursing at him before moving off. This train of thought needs to quiet down, to be stopped, before he gets hurt.

_You ran away from the world. You became lazy in your efforts to forget._

Smoke rises with a boom from the direction of the village. A new round of screaming starts and the disarrayed Elric clan shoves towards it in a huge effort. Ed is on the outskirts by the den as he hears it. It shatters him; the new cry is horrendous in the horror it pulls from him. He needs to get there fast!

Desperation drives him to stab an opponent off her horse. The sword goes through her back much too easily, like a hot knife through butter. She slides off as animal screams a primal shriek that makes him shudder. “I am so sorry.”  She’s an enemy that he made into a red mess on the ground. How fragile, how breakable. Is she even alive? It was necessary. He had to do it. There have been too many questions for one day.

Somehow, under the grace of whatever god that chose to have mercy on him, he gets on the steed’s back to steer it towards the village. Coming here was supposed to be make him strong. All of that effort was showing nothing as of right now.

-

The war dog is bounding after the horse, but his exhaustion is evident. Amarog is fifteen years old and hasn’t moved this much since he was small. Nevertheless, he enjoys the meal presented. War is easy to him. War was his mother and the blood of it had been his milk in his first days. The problem is the boy. Edward is a pup that needs to be taught how the world really works. He is too fragile for this. Looking like a living bloodstain, Amarog sings a war cry that tells of smashed security and death gasping,

‘To become a man, you must kill the boy.’ This is what he tells mother moon as she sleeps.

He is Trisha's little one, the child of an Elric that escaped the wars. Amarog has given him leeway because of his upbringing, too much of it. He decides to kill him if he should choose to give up. An Elric saves their tears for after the war. They stand on their own to fight until not a thing is left. He’s done a good job at barely surviving thus far, but it’s the final stretch. If the blond breaks now, he’ll just let himself die in the tundra.

A mercy killing. That’s what it would be.

-

Birds are still everywhere, screaming at him. Their shrieks drown out most of the human cries now, or is it like that because they are dead? “Just be quiet.” Edward begs the world to just hush for a moment.

Laika has settled down now. She’s huddling against his chest while Ed pushes the horse to its limit. All he can do is coo softly at her. If he speaks, he will cry. There had been a knife in a holder on his stolen ride’s neck. Ornamented with ivory birds, the short thing says Ivanov.

Ivanov, children and clan of Ivan the Sky King. Northerners treasure their names too much to use them meaninglessly, so they must be the one’s attacking. Agnessa shoves his head full of the stories daily; Edward knows every fact about King Ivan. Elric’s sing of the Ivanov myth as a tall tale as to warn children off from going into the mountains.

Why were they here? He needs all of the information before making a decision. Who, what, when, why, and how are utterly necessary.

But then it isn’t. A born and bred Northerner would snap their opponent's neck without question. A threat that is taking the lives of the family is dealt with immediately. He had taken out ambushers on the trail that way and he’d fought with another clan during the summer war without hesitation. That had been planned for.

When an eagle comes down, Edward slashes it on instinct. They are getting into the village now and it's burning with the pungent smell of gasoline. The fighting is more concentrated than by the den, the elaborateness of the enemy’s armor belying their higher rank.  

Chaos. This is chaos. This is hell.

The difference, he realizes, is that he could prepare for the worst in the past. He could mentally prepare for some homunculus to attack or for a fight against an opponent. Always fighting meant he was always ready and he had alchemy to back him up if he wasn’t.

This is a story pulled from a crappy novel. A sleepy village is attacked by an ambush and wrecked. The inhabitants are burned for some utterly human and utterly selfish reason. Money? Revenge? Land?

Agnessa, who never hurt anyone, could be dead for the sake of some gold. The children that taught him to write their language are being shot so people can expand their territory.

Dog eat dog. War is horrible and that generic story would paint him as a stupid man who gets shot in a last ditch effort to save someone. Edward would be turned into a fallen magician who laments his own life.

He’s not going to be like that. That nameless woman that he killed, she could still be alive but his guilt is telling him otherwise. Just one was more than enough. That single stabbing took everything out of him.

Elric’s are brunettes with fair skin and the ground is painted with their mauled flesh. Truth was more lenient in what it took; cleanly cut with clinical precision. His kin are the exact opposite.

The horse is ditched behind a house and Edward doesn’t even flinch as Amarog ends her life. It is needed, he tells himself. An unridden horse would bring dangerous attention. He tries to bring validity to the madness.

A hiss passes his lips when Amarog slaps him with his tail. The dog is growling, telling him with his eyes that there isn’t any use in trying to put this whole mess into an easy explanation.

‘Just kill them.’ Amarog picks up a fallen bow and quiver from the ground to present to him. ‘If they all die then we won’t.’ Ed doesn’t realize that he’s almost hallucinating from the stress. His mind won’t let him take a life, so it’s using an alternative so he can understand.

‘Big brother!’ Nina is smiling ever so warmly. Her hands are as tiny as she shows him how to notch the weapon. He would never use a gun, not after what happened with Winry and Scar, but a bow is safe. Cousin Natalia beat the training into him so he could help hunt.

How small she is. Where’s her dog? Where’s Alphonse? They’re supposed to be finding information on chimeras.

Some part of his brain is shouting at him not to use what’s in his hands. Dropped to the ground, Laika is crying in response to his stress, but he can’t hear her.

Nina is sobbing in fear while Alexander is barking repeatedly. Her father is threatening her repeatedly, looking like some horned beast. Father, Envy, and Lust- all of the homunculi are laughing as well.

It’s a whirlwind of movement and grating madness that whispers as it shoves and pulls him. The smell of blood, the tumbling laughter, and the piercing nature of the war leave nothing to him.

Whatisgoingonwhatisgoingon.

He is a small child again, lonely and afraid of everything.

Alphonse's armor lies dead and empty. It’s all his fault!

Why can’t he ever protect anyone?

Edward lets the arrow fly—he can at least protect Nina. He can at least attempt to do that. Amarog howls.

-

There is a story for every clan, no matter the size. The families pride themselves on their heritage. To them, every word of their origin is a set truth. Every single babe is brought up on it.

Fenrir was a wolf of unmatched strength and arrogance. His mother was Angrboða, the weeper, and his father was the shackled god, Loki. Fenrir wasn’t necessarily evil, he simply lived according to what he wished. Fear of him grew as he did. The gods rebuffed him no matter how kind he was. Whispers said that Fenrir would become so vicious that he would devour the earth itself.

To prevent the world’s end, his old friend Tyr bound him with an unbreakable ribbon. This was an act of betrayal that stained the wolf's vision red. He snapped his jaws around the once comrade’s right arm while cursing him.

Tyr laughed with sorrow until the world shook. Bleeding unceasing, he told his companion that he could damn him until the Ragnarock. There was no choice but to tie him down. Odin had stolen any will that he had, making him into a puppet. In response Fenrir howled his grief. Once a deity utters a curse, the world changes according to it.  That’s why a person must be careful with what they say. Words cannot ever be taken back.

Tyr made no attempt at saving himself. His essence ran down the mountains and the sorrow in his veins froze the world. The laments of the bound wolf made the sun hide behind the clouds. Satisfied, Odin had abandoned the two.

However, as Tyr was dying, the Earth began to shake. He was a god; it took months upon years for him to die. Infuriated at the heartlessness, the planet chose to rend the inhuman deities from their thrones. It would rain fire upon them all.

It was not Fenrir who was supposed to end the world. The hubris only known to Odin was the trigger to it all. Instead of understanding a being unlike him, he turned his nose up and ordered the death of Fenrir.

Fenrir shoved at the ribbon without rest so he could reach his friend. If the world would end, why not see it together? Human cries halted his movement. Still young, the race hid beneath his massive belly to escape the brimstone. The cries touched his sad heart.

On his last breath, Tyr mourned for it all. He apologized again and again as the earth shattered. Even as his spirit was half gone, he begged for a different ending.

Incensed, Fenrir drove forward again. All of his strength was spent in the final effort of crawling closer. When he did, he used his sharp teeth to skin both the dead Tyr and himself. Fenrir traded flesh with him. Tyr opened his eyes once more, but was a godly wolf. Within moments, Fenrir's new skin settled upon him to make him into a human.

He loved his friend so dearly that he gave up his immortality as a price. The earth settled, satisfied that Tyr was alive.

They vowed that they would stay together no matter the age, no matter the form. Fenrir was a wolf in a human flesh. Tyr became the one bound to his spot. The two came to have families that would never leave each other. Their souls would forever remember the promise and the sacrifice.

Now, the Elric’s exist as beasts hiding in human skin. Time has tempered their animal instinct. The flesh that cloaks them has fooled them into thinking that they are human. They are not. They never shall be. Elric’s are the world-eater’s children through and through.

Tyr’s descendants became dumb as well. As their blood mixed and mutts were born, the gods in dog’s skin degraded. Fenrir's features became more recessive as time went on. Though their minds were still inhumanly sharp, they forgot speech.

The Ivanov attackers knew this as they swarmed their targets land. Fenrir's myth was what kept many from going after the family before. But, they had believed that their opponent had grown soft in their years of peace.

Arrows are raining and a golden-haired man is laughing with tears streaking down his face. A wolf whose howls are shaking them to their bones.

Fenrir has remembered what he is. They fear it.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. Innocent slaughterer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews make me update faster and help me grow! Tell me what you think.
> 
> FOR XYRIATHHH

He can’t stop.

Edward is running forward, cutting a swathe through the Ivanov. They are fragile, breaking like warm ice beneath his boots on warm day. He compares them to the zombie like Homunculi who never ceased, no matter the wound. Those things took a punch without so much as a flinch.

These things just crumble. None of them regenerate, so they must be failed experiments. Clones, perhaps? The ones resembling Envy is the worst, jumping from place to place even as Edward slices them in half. The birds are keeping a distance from him now, screaming fearfully.

If his bow breaks, he simply picks up another one. The sword that becomes too slippery with blood is tossed for another that’s pulled from a body near by. Laika and Nina are really the only things that are hindering him. Laika squirming and nervous but he can’t leave her behind for fear of not seeing her again. Nina’s perfectly fine, warmly ambling along.

The little girl smiles and he can’t help but grin back and say, “Everything’s going to be alright!”

Kill what’s in front of him, wait for Laika and Nina to walk up behind and hide. Wash, rinse, repeat. Amarog still scolds him, growling when he lets the bodies fall without a secondary wound to the neck to ensure death. 

The old wolf doesn’t seem to get that if a Homunculus falls, they die for good. They’re all too full of themselves to simply play dead. Edward himself doesn’t look back, not noticing the broken bodies behind him or the tears streaming down his face.

Jump high with the grace of a ballet dancer. Flip out of the way like he never stopped fighting after the Promised Day. Barrel forward, surviving. He’s not even going with a purpose, at this point. Edward is just taking out any detected threat.

In the middle of the village, there’s a bunch of humans huddled and a large male on a horse. An intricate red fur cape around his shoulders and a huge golden bird on a wooden pole next to him. It’s color reminds him of Alphonse, light and almost white.

Agnessa, the old witch, is standing up to what looks like to be the second-in-command. A thin and gangly looking man who reeks of entitlement. The horse rider and he are the only humans among the enemy, everyone else looking like Pride.

Cackling.

Edward shoves Nina and Laika into an empty house, pulling the door closed and telling them, “Just be quiet. I need to take care of this.” Nina smiles and nods, understanding everything as always. Laika runs under a fur pelt. 

Twelve arrows to his quiver. A sword and the Ivanov dagger shoved in his belt. These things in hand, he decides to kill the Homunculi to save the remaining Elric’s. The two humans will be captured and he won’t kill them. They’re human, so he must not.

-

Amarog blankly stares at the man in front of him, muttering under his breath. Tear tracts stain his cheeks, leaving two lines of skin unmarred by blood splatter. There’s nothing to him, Edward is a glass emptied out. 

He’s seen it before, humans unable to accept the act of killing sometimes revert to madness. Their brains are fragile, easily broken by a few words or actions. They don’t think beyond the moment. Damn self defense, right?

Killing is necessary. Edward’s already taken many lives, so that part is done. The next thing to deal with will be his reaction when everything sets in. He could wind up going mad upon realization and try to kill himself. Edward could also accept what he did, but like hell that’s going to be easy.

Why would it? Humans think too much instead of accepting. They look back and cry and question. Northerners are mostly devoid of the regrets over killing, they are raised in war. It’s normal for them to see someone cut down.

Amestrian born Edward is going to take time. Amarog shrugs, not moving from his earlier decision to kill his companion if he should break.

Edward climbs the hut, careful not to alert anyone. With a huff, Amarog follows by scaling a stack of snow covered crates. His hips and jaw ache from the strain of it all. Killing people is tiring, even though he gets a full belly from it.

Humans never seem to understand that. It’s not like he doesn’t have standards. Civilians and children are off limits in any situation. Those who are ill are to be avoided. Women are too chewy, so he usually just gives a deep bite to ensure death and one more to the jugular.

Men, preferably strong, are the best. Amarog doesn’t eat people live, even though his long dead littermates did. After eating, he likes to chew on the femur for a few hours and wash it down with some vodka.

In Drachma, Vodka drinks you. The thought of the heavy drink has Amarog salivating. It’s the Fenrir blood that makes him able to drink without a chance of poisoning and he takes advantage of the fact whenever he can. He can even balance a glass of it on his nose.

With a jump, Edward leaps three houses over and Amarog follows in pursuit. They get right behind the targets, hidden behind the eaves of a house. Edward mutters once more and questions him, “Who do you think I should pick off first?”

Amarog is a dog, so he can’t really speak, yet the blond acts as if he’s been responded to. He notches his bow and takes aim, firing at one of what looks to be seventeen guards. They fall to the ground, dead before impact.

The other sixteen look alarmed but undeterred, signaling their experience. They’re all stupidly birdless except for the man who looks to be the commander. His eagle turns its head towards them, clearly seeing them.

It takes off screening. Amarog howls and happily bounds towards it, jumping off the house to meet it in midair. They scrape and tear at each other in the most ferocious dance.

-

They’re so slow. It’s embarrassing, really. If he had his alchemy this would have been over in a second. The false Pride’s would be up to their knees in earth or ground into dust. But, that’s gone so he has to make do with slamming a sword into one of their sides when they get too close.

Combat flows like water, like breathing. In and out and in. Every movement should be precise and practiced to the point of being automatic. A true fighter is a dancer that spins over the battlefield. 

The third Pride has a bit of it, he knows the one two three four tempo of a fight. However, his hand is three inches too high. His neck upper neck is covered, but not the lower section. If Edward was looking to disable, he would punch the man there and knock him out.

But he’s not, so he slides the Ivanov blade up at an angle and into the jugular. With strength made from living in the Tundra, the weapon is shoved in easily. He drop it and flips into the air onto his side as to avoid a low hit to his legs.

One two three four, he lands behind the attacker and finds that there are no weapons in his hands. Edward still has to protect Nina and Agnessa, he can’t have any excuse as to not to. On a burst of instinct, he latches onto the neck of the man he dodged and pulls.

Swiftly, he pulls their head backward and then twists it to the right with all of the energy he can muster. There’s a sharp crack, a nauseating sound. If he had done it to a regular person, then Ed would deign to throw himself off a cliff.

He forgets the horse seated woman. Her possible death at his hands. It’s pushed behind the laughter of Homunculi and the sight of throat slitted dogs.

A red glow grabs his attention, snow turned into icicles being tossed at him. Much more fast than the transmutation, Edward uses the shoulder of an oncoming Pride as a leverage to get him into the air. That one dies, pierced through by the attack. Edward dashes towards the alchemist, leaning to the left to avoid another attack.

So slow. Such a red light. It comes from the man who was arguing with Agnessa. Edward slams him into the ground, body weight dragging. 

“Get the fuck off!” Another red glow begins and Edward sees that its from the man's left hand. A red ring on his left hand. 

Homunculi and philosophers stones, oh my! It enrages him. This should have been done with. All of the stones should have been destroyed with Father. All of the knowledge sealed away when the government destroyed.

It’s obvious that someone slipped through the cracks. Mustang is going to get such a fucking lashing when Ed gets his hands on him.

 

Edward laces his hand with the alchemists and smiling, he twists yet again. The wrist bones crack and the alchemist shrieks. Pulling off the ring, Edward scolds him, “Shut up. You’re not going to die.”

There’s a movement in the air at his back as someone tries to attack him. Edward is ready, forms the plan in his mind, but a well placed slingshot fires and a rock meets the Pride’s skull.  
Agnessa. She’s grinning, full of soot and life. It seems that the clan members that were restrained took his attack as a signal and decided to stand up and rebel. They’re battle crying and singing in low voices. He leaves the Pride’s to them, fully confident in their abilities.

He leaves the screaming man, ready to take down the leader who still sits in his seat. Doing nothing but looking down at them. Amarog is still warring with the bird.

Aged, but younger than Agnessa. He looks like Odin would if in flesh, stern and distinctly featured. Wisps of smoke churn in the air behind him and a face comes into view, half formed. A woman covered in robes of shadows. Left hand skeletal and her right graceful and pale.

He snorts when Ed comes in front of him. With a voice made rugged by accent he booms,“You are Edvard Elreek.”

“The one and only,” he responded viciously. The half woman laughs joyously, sounding like Death itself. It’s a voice that would make men gladly borrow into the snow and die of hypothermia.

She coos in the old language, “Barn!” 

There is no fear for her, though she may be Homunclus born. It’s as if he’s always known her. Edward sees Al in her flesh half, the upturn of her lips. She leaves the old man, gliding towards him on invisible winds. The sleeves slide down to reveal more rot and she moves to his left side to hug him around his neck, body half mist.

The Odin man doesn’t seem to see or hear her. She’s damp and half warm against Edward when the man unceremoniously tells him his own name, “And I am Feodora. It would be wise of you to cease your fighting. It would be better for both of us in the end.”

Edward shrugs, a false frown on his face. The woman grins, contentedly.

And then he races forward, ready to take the man off his horse. The only clear way to make the Ivanov stop attacking would be to take their leader hostage. With all of the slaughter he’s done, why would the man call a cease fire?


End file.
